“Oh, God,” I gasp, starting to let my head fall back. Before I can protest, his lips come down hard on mine and he slips his tongue inside my mouth, stealing my second kiss. Just like that. Without permission. Without warning.
For the briefest second—one based on confusion and Bacardi—I tangle my tongue with his, loving the taste of him, loving the kiss. But then my commonsense kicks in, and I pull my tongue out and bite down on his bottom lip hard.
“No kissing,” I growl in a low tone, tracing my fingers up his chest as he pauses inside me, still holding onto me.
His eyes are glossed over and he looks completely out of it. “Fine… if that’s what you want.” He licks his wounded lip as he rocks into me again.
“Those are the rules,” I groan, rolling my hips forward. He sucks in a sharp breath then reciprocates by rocking his hips forward, sliding inside me almost painfully slow. My nails pierce his skin again as I veer toward the edge of losing it, desperate to hold on, knowing once I fall, it will be back to reality.
He continues the slow movements again and again, grasping onto my thighs, fingertips delving into my skin so roughly I’m sure I’m going to have bruises. I clutch onto his shoulders as I move my hips in sync with his. The lights, music, voices—everything—fades around us. My body climbs higher and higher away from reality.
I forget where I am. Who I am. I forget about everything as he drives my mind and body further away from reality until I completely come apart, crying out his name as my head falls back. He gives one last thrust inside me then joins me, struggling to hold onto me as he comes.
After everything settles, he rests his face in the crook of my neck and starts placing light kisses on my damp skin. I don’t even bother stopping him, too tired and content to speak. This was good, I want to say. Much better than the first time. Yet, by the time I work up the energy to say it, his phone starts ringing from inside the pocket of his pants.
Blowing out a loud breath, he unwinds my legs from his waist and my feet return to the floor. Then he moves around me, his eyes on the floor as he pulls up his pants. He has scratches all over his chest, his hair is disheveled, his lips swollen, and I-just-had-hot-as-hell-sex is written all over him. I’m sure I look the same way.
I wish it was enough, wish I could hold onto the feelings that were in me moments ago, however they’re already slipping away.
I collect my panties from the floor and put them back on while he retrieves his phone. He checks his messages, his frown deepening the longer he stares at the screen. I try to put on my dress as calmly as I can, but the look on his face and the quietness is killing me. It’s impending. Because, deep down, I know what the phone call is.
Seconds later, he confirms what I already knew. “It’s time,” he says quietly, still not looking at me. “I’ll let you get dressed; meet me outside the bathroom.” Then he puts on his shirt, exits the stall, and leaves me alone, taking all my contentment along with him.
Chapter 6
I’ve never been much of a worrier or the kind of person that has a panic attack. The only time I came close was when I was twelve and one of my dad’s enemies tried to kidnap me as I was playing in the park with one of my friends. It never got very far, partially because it was just a couple of crack addicts pissed off at my dad for the increase in money to feed their addiction. And partially because I had Dougie and Dominic, my two bodyguards, who rarely left my side at the time.
As soon as the crackheads approached me, they were taken out. Nothing major happened. But I did see a bigger picture at the moment that worried me a little. That all those times my dad had made me go practice shooting guns, all the self-defense classes, all the protection—it was for a reason. That my life was fuller of risks than most, and for the next few days after, I had a sequence of panic attacks.
I quickly learned to deal with this revelation, and for the most part, lived a pretty content life. At least up until a few hours ago when I woke up in the warehouse—that took any contentment left away. I started realizing that this point in time has probably been inevitable. It probably has been set in my future since I was born, or something like it. What’s more, I should have run when I had the chance—just run and never looked back.
***
After I get dressed and fix my hair and makeup, I meet Layton outside of the bathroom. He’s there just like he said, leaning against the filthy wall, arms crossed, his hair back into place, and clothes smooth of wrinkles, as if we hadn’t just f**ked each other’s brains out.
“You ready?” he asks when he spots me walking down the hall toward him. The darkness has returned to his expression, and he’s no longer my Layton but Frankie’s.
Stopping in front of him, I shrug, as blasé as I can be. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He nods his head once and then stands up straight, motioning me to follow him as he heads back down the hall toward the bar area and dance floor. The music slams against my chest and the lights sting at my eyes as I step out of the dim hallway and into the room. I don’t have to ask him where he’s going as he makes his way down the side of the bar and toward the back door. He’s already told me step by step what I am going to do.
The hefty bartender standing behind the counter is Big Dog Hankton and actually works for Frankie, but Anthony doesn’t know that. He’s supposed to give Layton the heads up when Anthony arrives, which I’m assuming was the phone call Layton got right after we f**ked.
After the go-ahead from Hankton, Layton is supposed to take me to the backroom where Anthony does a lot of his dirty work; beatings, dealings, whacks and whatnot—in this world, everyone has a backroom. Tonight, Anthony’s going to be alone—at least, according to Hankton—so it should be a clear hit and I shouldn’t run into problems. Of course, if I do, then it’s all going to fall back on my family.
The Defontelles are the second most powerful drug lords on the east coast. I’ve heard stories about them; ones where they cut off heads of the people who cross them then send them to the family members as a warning, pure torture.
This is all I can think of by the time Layton and I reach the back door—my head being shipped to my father in a box with a big red bow on it. Is that where I’m going to end up after all of this? Beheaded? My stomach churns.
God, it seems like such a shitty way to go.
“Are you going to be okay?” Layton’s voice jerks me back to reality.